Co-Saga: Generica: A Strange Place for an Artifact
Mar 16, 2006 8:24:24 GMT
Post by barnibusquentin on Mar 16, 2006 8:24:24 GMT
The trail was faint as a burnt out star. But it was there none-the-less, leading to it’s source from all places on the planet: a gossamer web covering every inch of Eden –although only few could sense it, and even for them it wasn’t easy. From the beach, it led north and east. Over the cities and sprawling green folds of Isysia and into the ocean. Across the waves it was draped: a fishing line leading to a catch. Always north and west. At long last the thread of magic came ashore on the Northwestern Continent. It snaked its way up the beach, through the delta and finally into the gates of Capital City, Generica. It fell into the sewers, from the sky it would be even fainter. Foot travel would yield the best results.
Through the bustling city it went, passed giant geometrical billboards proclaiming the awesomeness of “Cola” or the athletic superiority of “Cross-Trainers.” Each sign was branded with the glistening approval of the Generican government who provided for everything. To anyone other than a Generican this would seem ludicrous, but it was all they had ever known. It was a perfect happy life. The thread passed by towering towers, each identical in décor and color, only size differed. It passed by countless numbers of nearly identically dressed people, each walking casually, at pace, in turn, answering politely, waiting for the walk signal to light, getting in their brand-less cars, bumper stickers spouting slogans like “Generica is my Eden,” or “Generica’s best forget the rest.”
Finally, the thread passed through the double glass doors of Capital City’s hospital, the “Capital City Hospital.” It wound around the secretary’s desk as she sneered into her telephone saying, “No, I’m sorry sir, I understand you’re a tourist and you have a lot of money but you’ll have to wait like everyone else.” She pushed her glasses further up her nose and popped a small pink bubble of gum from her mouth.
The thread continued passed the secretary’s desk into the rest of the waiting room. Each piece of furniture was of the most modern style, created from the finest etched glass and polished aluminum, and completely free of any dirt. Chairs wrapped around the perimeter of the room, each set focused in a large exotic looking plant –for comfort. The walls were hung with photographs and likenesses of distinguished hospital employees and paintings of the Generican president John Smith. Under some of these sat a motley arrangement of sick looking people: one cradled a broken arm, another a nose dripping with blood. But, strangely they all seemed content; not happy surely, but content that they would receive the services they needed as soon as was possible.
Through the bustling city it went, passed giant geometrical billboards proclaiming the awesomeness of “Cola” or the athletic superiority of “Cross-Trainers.” Each sign was branded with the glistening approval of the Generican government who provided for everything. To anyone other than a Generican this would seem ludicrous, but it was all they had ever known. It was a perfect happy life. The thread passed by towering towers, each identical in décor and color, only size differed. It passed by countless numbers of nearly identically dressed people, each walking casually, at pace, in turn, answering politely, waiting for the walk signal to light, getting in their brand-less cars, bumper stickers spouting slogans like “Generica is my Eden,” or “Generica’s best forget the rest.”
Finally, the thread passed through the double glass doors of Capital City’s hospital, the “Capital City Hospital.” It wound around the secretary’s desk as she sneered into her telephone saying, “No, I’m sorry sir, I understand you’re a tourist and you have a lot of money but you’ll have to wait like everyone else.” She pushed her glasses further up her nose and popped a small pink bubble of gum from her mouth.
The thread continued passed the secretary’s desk into the rest of the waiting room. Each piece of furniture was of the most modern style, created from the finest etched glass and polished aluminum, and completely free of any dirt. Chairs wrapped around the perimeter of the room, each set focused in a large exotic looking plant –for comfort. The walls were hung with photographs and likenesses of distinguished hospital employees and paintings of the Generican president John Smith. Under some of these sat a motley arrangement of sick looking people: one cradled a broken arm, another a nose dripping with blood. But, strangely they all seemed content; not happy surely, but content that they would receive the services they needed as soon as was possible.